“You’re fucking kidding me.”
A single grunt is all Kate offers to confirm that no, she is not fucking kidding.
“He forgot?” My enraged screech startles more than one of the families attempting to enjoy the early July sunshine in the park I’m stomping through. I took the long way home with the same intention, wanting to soak up the New York summer I yearn for all year.
Alas, a single call and one infuriating confession has ruined any chance of that.
Offering as apologetic a smile as I can muster in my current fuming state, I hiss at the unimpressed face taking up my phone screen, “He forgot her birthday?”
Kate’s sigh is more resigned than surprised. “Hasn’t so much as texted her.”
“You are fucking kidding me,” I repeat my earlier statement, shaking my head and damn near crushing the plastic takeout cup of passionfruit lemonade clutched between my fingers. Not for the first time since I met Dylan Wells, I wish it was his neck straining beneath my fingertips.
Bastard.
I shouldn’t be shocked; forgetting his girlfriend’s—my best friend’s—birthday is the least offensive of a long string of misdemeanors. The guy is a pushy, controlling prick, and I knew as much as the second I met him. He always expects the most while providing the bare fucking minimum—literally the polar opposite of Amelia—and it hurts, seeing my kind, headstrong friend so frequently mistreated, so often reduced to a pretty little ornament draped over an unworthy arm. And it’s infuriating that no matter what I do, I can’t change Amelia’s mind about him because in her eyes, for some unknown reason, the man can do no wrong.
In my eyes, Dylan is a billboard ad for why a commitment-free life of meaningless sex is superior.
For months—honestly, since the moment Dylan strutted into the dorm Amelia, Kate, and I shared and introduced himself to my boobs—I’ve been searching for an intervention opportunity, and it looks like this might be it.
On cue, a door opens and closes somewhere in Kate’s vicinity, and my friend’s subtly enraged expression melts into a careful smile. A greeting sounds, followed by a request for Kate’s location, and a moment later, another face joins our video call, our trio complete for the first time in a week.
I didn’t think time apart from my roommates would be a big deal but after an entire college year practically attached at the hip, I feel like I’m missing a freaking limb.
“Hey, stranger,” my favorite little redhead greets.
“Hey, birthday girl,” I sing a reply. “You get my present?”
Green eyes shine with humorous gratitude as Amelia nods. “They’re bigger than me.”
Considering Amelia makes Thumbelina look like a giant—it would probably be harder to find sunflowers smaller than her than it was to find a jungle of potted plants almost a head taller.
Even before the murderous-rage-inducing news of Dylan’s forgetfulness reached me, I knew the bastard would fail the girlfriend he doesn’t deserve on her special day. And flowers on a birthday are what Dylan Wells is to chemical castration—obligatory.
However, when I voice that thought—that fact—the reactions are far from agreeable.
“It’s not a big deal,” Amelia defends a man who doesn’t deserve it. “He has a lot going on right now.”
Yeah, right. An unemployed, unmotivated dipshit who’s sole interest lies in the bottom of a keg has a lot going on in the middle of summer break.
Sure.
“Do something nice today, okay?” I say instead of word-vomiting the many derogatory comments brewing in my brain. Contrary to popular belief, I do know where to draw the line—I just have to squint to see it sometimes. “Go celebrate.”
Don’t sit at home and wallow over that goddamn dickhead.
“I will,” Amelia replies, her poor attempt at a lie evident in the pinkening tips of her ears.
Smile tight, my gaze finds Kate and a rapid, silent conversation occurs between the two of us—something along the lines of make her go out, I’ll try my best, drag her by her hair if you have to—that Amelia finds incredibly annoying, if her little huff is anything to go by. “Stop it.” She elbows Kate, and I feel the ghost of a sharp joint poke me. “I’m fine. I have coffee cake and sunflowers. That’s celebratory enough for me.”
A sad, slightly pathetic celebration unworthy of such an occasion, in my humble opinion, but I’m not one to kick someone when they’re down.
Well, not intentionally.
It takes an impressive display of self-control to keep my mouth shut and my rampant thoughts to myself. By the time the girls bid me goodbye, the poor cup in my hand is as dead as I wish, with zero shame, a certain sorry excuse for a man was.
Tossing the crumpled cup in the trash can at the bottom of my mom’s building’s stairwell, I climb the three stories to the one-bedroom apartment we shared for almost two decades, feet slapping against the so-old-they-must-be-a-health-hazard-steps with more fervor than necessary. Stomping down the hall, I wrestle my keys out of my bag and unlock the front door painted a faded shade of bubblegum pink—something Little Luna who likened Princess Peach to a god begged for and Preteen Luna who inexplicably thought pink was uncool loathed.
Shouldering the Pepto-Bismol-esque slab of wood open, my nose scrunches as a familiar, overwhelming stench engulfs me. “Ma, I’m home.”
No reply.
Unsurprising, considering the volume of the music rattling the walls has not only swallowed my words but has probably severely hindered my mother’s hearing capabilities.
Following the telling trail of colorful droplets staining the floor, I find Ma where she usually is; upstairs in the loft area I used to call a bedroom, covered in paint and haphazardly swooshing a paintbrush at a canvas.
“Ma,” I repeat louder, simultaneously reaching for the old stereo propped in the corner and quieting the melody threatening to scramble my brain. The blonde woman with her back to me jumps, spinning around and brandishing the brush in her hand like a weapon. It might as well be; paint stains are definitely something to fear.
When blue eyes, the mirror image of mine, land on me, Ma deflates. “Jesus, Lu, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” Thumb swiping at a streak of paint marring her cheek, I’m momentarily distracted by the bright colors as I ponder what Ma’s painting now. Last month, she had a thing for oceans, various shades of blue streaking her skin, clothing, canvases, everything. This month, it looks like red is her thing.
Fitting, considering my mood right now.
A mood that I’m apparently not hiding very well.
Brow creased with a frown, Ma scrubs a damp rag over her paint-flecked skin, doing the same to my thumb. “You okay?”
A simple question and her probing stare are enough to have my big mouth opening and word vomit spilling out. Before I know it, I’ve relayed the entire Dylan dilemma in a perfectly dramatic rant, pacing, erratic arm gestures, spittle flying and all.
Ma regards with a mixture of amusement and concern, gaze flicking from my fidgeting hands to my marching feet as they narrowly avoid colliding with an open paint can. “Lu, did you take your meds this morning?”
With a huff, my eyes roll toward the ceiling. “Yes.” I take them every morning like clockwork, habitually, ingrained between brushing my teeth and doing my hair.
“Just checking sweets.” Ma surveys me skeptically. “You seem a little off.”
“I’m just irritated.” And I get a little more so at the assumption that me being in a bad mood automatically means I skipped my meds and I’m displaying signs of hyperactivity rather than just regular fucking emotions.
Expression shifting to one of subtle guilt, Ma swiftly changes the subject. Ushering me downstairs, she deposits me by the small table separating kitchen from living room, commanding me to sit down before snatching up the kettle; it’s a strong Isla Evans belief that tea can fix anything. “Any plans for tonight?”
“Going out with Eva and Bea.”
Ma grimaces at the mugs—handmade by her—lining our kitchen cabinets. She’s never been the biggest fan of my high school friends. Snooty and uptight is what she’s always called them, and honestly, after spending time away from them and returning with fresh eyes, I’m inclined to agree.
When I came home last Christmas, it was a veil lifted and suddenly revealed how rude and self-involved they are. Spending any time with them felt akin to torture. Every conversation felt like a competition, a sneaky battle over who was having the best college experience. And, God, the way they spoke to everyone around them? Bartenders, hostesses, waitresses, old classmates who deigned to say hello? I was in a state of permanent cringe.
Over Spring Break, when I brought Amelia and Kate home, I successfully avoided them for the entire week. Alas, I’m not that lucky twice in a row; my plane had barely landed before Eva was calling, insisting on a catch-up, and I’ve been bracing myself for scrutiny and pushy questions ever since.
The only silver lining; I’ll have alcohol to cushion the experience.
I look fucking hot.
Clad in a little black dress, hair floating around me like a halo, make-up done to fucking perfection. The thumping music guides my body, my fake ID and phone secured in my bra so my hands are free to thread through my hair, gathering it in my hands away from my sticky neck.
Eva and Bea dance beside me, albeit a lot stiffer, more focused on throwing flirty lances and pouty lips at the guys surrounding us, dancing for them while I’m dancing for me. At the risk of sounding like a conceited bitch, I don’t need to beg for attention.
They’ll come to me.
It’s amazing what a head of blonde hair, a decent pair of boobs and a sliver of black material covering next-to-nothing will do. Miraculous, really, especially when they earn me free drinks like the one I receive within minutes of leaving the dance floor in favor of the bar.
If I were a better person, I would reject the gratuitous vodka cranberry gifted from a slightly creepy, greasy-looking man I have zero interest in.
Good is not something I’ve ever claimed to be.
Snatching the condensation-streaked glass with a coy, grateful smile, my free hand discreetly crumples the accompanying napkin scrawled with his number and drops it into one of the many dirty glasses littering the bar.
“That wasn’t very nice, darling.”
Another thing I have never claimed to be.
The instinctive grimace that always comes out to play when a man in a nightclub invades my personal space is only slightly tempered by the familiarity of the voice crooning in my ear. “Darling?” I twist to frown at the man behind me. “Really?”
Owen’s laughter tickles my brow. “Princess? Lover? Sugarplum?“
“Enough,“ I groan, shaking my head like that might rid my mind of the offensive pet names. Wretched things. Never seen the appeal.
When you get called ‘baby’ by some meaningless, random man yelling across the street one too many times, it kind of loses its allure.
Hands settle on my hips, tugging and guiding me back to the dance floor, and I let them. Out of all my hometown friends, Owen is the only one I’m genuinely glad to see. The only one I can tolerate for extended periods of time. The only one with whom absence did, in fact, make the heart grow slightly fonder.
Whether that has anything to do with him being the regular source of my orgasms for the better part of my senior year, who knows.
It’s always been a casual thing. Never exclusive. Certainly not something I foresaw continuing during college breaks but hey, it’s a comfortable arrangement. A safe one, and sometimes, a girl needs a little safe. Especially on nights like this; not only do I get a guaranteed happy ending but also a handy bodyguard to scare away silly men who can’t take a hint.
Owen is perfectly adequate. Not great, but good. He gets the job done. Scratches the itch. Which is more than I can say for every man in Sun Valley; I don’t know where the hell the guys who know what they’re doing are lurking in that town but I’ve yet to find one. Sex with Owen is quick and dirty, exactly how we both prefer our hookups. No false promises or fake sentiments or useless expectations.
Just sex.
And that night, when the nightclub suddenly becomes his bedroom, it’s just sex.
I barely even take a minute to catch my breath before rolling out of his bed, dark carpet soft beneath my bare feet as I hunt for my scattered clothing. It doesn’t take very long—not like I was wearing much.
Owen rises as I’m hooking my bra into place, and I watch him pad naked toward the bathroom, tossing the condom in a trash can. When he leans against the doorway, an amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You can stay, you know. If you want.“
Wrestling my dress up my body, I shoot him a look. He knows damn well I won’t. The spare room down the hall has my name on it, as it always does.
A sigh escapes my occasional fuck-buddy, a hand scratching his bare chest. “It’s not that deep, Lu. I’m not gonna fall in love with you if we sleep in the same bed.”
“Not a chance I’m willing to take, ” I tease, bending to scoop up my heels, laughter following me as I dart from the room with an air-kiss and a quip thrown over my shoulder, “Men have fallen for less.”
Honestly, I hate sleeping in the same bed as other people. I move around too much. I like my own space too much. I don’t like the claustrophobic feeling of an arm locking me in place like a sexed-up seatbelt.
Why share half a bed with a stranger—or, in this case, a friend—when I can have a whole one all to myself?
As I sneak down the hall, squinting against the darkness and wondering when the hell the others arrived at Owen’s place—the floor separating us does nothing to dull the sounds of their partying—when I barrel headfirst into someone. “Jesus, Eva.” My yelped groan of surprise morphs into a ragged laugh when I recognize the scowling brunette. “You scared the shit out of me.”
One half of the duo I spent most of my high school career attached to doesn’t respond. Judging by her tense shoulders and the snarl twisting her lips, her night clearly wasn’t as successful as mine. Gaze flickering to the room I just snuck out of, Eva’s eyes roll to the back of head when she notices the slightly ajar door. “You’re still playing around with Owen?”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that wild look in her eyes was jealousy.
“If you mean fucking him,” she winces at my candor, and yeah, that’s definitely jealousy, “then yeah.”
Eva does not look impressed. “How many is that this week? You cycle through your little black book yet?”
God, it is too early for slut-shaming. Or too late? I don’t know, but either way, I’m too tired for her attitude. “Didn’t take you for a prude, Eva.”
“I’m just not a whore.”
A loud snort escapes me before I can stifle it. “Michael Harvey would beg to differ.”
Eva stiffens, snarling something vulgar beneath her breath at the mention of the ex she cheated on.
Repeatedly. Relentlessly. Unashamedly.
Like, the girl didn’t even try to hide it.
In her defense, the guy is a misogynistic dick who, more than once, loudly declared he only dated Eva because she was a cheerleader—I distinctly remember something vomit-inducing about neither her looks nor her personality being the real catch, but her flexibility—and definitely deserved to be knocked down a few pegs.
But hey, a girl’s gotta defend herself and I’ll find my ammo wherever it arises.
Like an enraged dog, Eva grits her teeth, metaphorical hackles raised as she readies herself for a brawl. But as much as I adore some verbal sparring, entertaining an unworthy opponent whose peak creativity solely involves digs at who I let in my pants feels like a chore. I’d much rather bask in the lingering remnants of my sleepy, post-orgasm haze whilst sprawled on the cloud-like king-size mattress in the spare room. So, before the bitch can pounce, I yawn, loud and obnoxious.
“I’d love to discuss my sexual habits further,” I lie. “But being such a slut is hard work, y’know? I’m beat.”
Whatever response Eva conjures up, I don’t stick around to hear it.
